The Death Row Job
by Soquilii
Summary: This time, the team cannot provide... Leverage.


**The Death Row Job**

This time, the team cannot provide...Leverage.

Based on a true story

Rated Mature for language and violence

by Soquilii

For this story I've given Eliot a Special Forces tattoo on his forearm.

**Chapter One**

_**NOW**_

'Did, uh, Hardison take care of everything?'

'Yeah, Nate…I'm as clean as the day I was born,' Eliot growled sarcastically. He was in a foul mood, sitting at the bar, nursing his third beer.

'As I recall, newborn babies aren't…'

'_Cut the__sick__humor, all right, Nate?!'_

'Sorry,' Nate said slowly and calmly, as if Eliot was a rattler ready to strike. He stirred his own drink with his finger. 'Thought _you_ were being humorous. Just checking on you.'

Eliot's throat worked. He kept his eyes straight ahead as he spoke. 'I went…I went back to what I was. What I thought I'd left behind. What I've worked so fucking hard to leave behind. I went back to it…and I… I _reveled_ in it. It felt _good_, Nate. You don't know what that fucking feels like…not to that degree, anyway…and I hope to God you never do.'

'It was self-defense, Eliot. Any court in the union would…'

'_No._ They wouldn't. That's just what's wrong, Nate. Any court _wouldn't._ The system's completely _fucked up._ And this time we couldn't _provide_…Leverage.'

**Chapter Two**

_**THREE MONTHS AGO**_

Anne Spencer ran down the steps of the county courthouse, half-blinded by rage, tears, and her flying hair. The stone steps curved outward at the base and were bookended by tall granite columns. Anne raced down the last few steps, around the column and collided painfully with a man wearing dungarees and a leather jacket.

The full-body impact knocked her off her feet. The man grabbed her, redirected the force of her fall and rolled them both onto the bank of soft grass bordering the walkway. Coughing, he rubbed his chest where her shoulder had struck him. He leaned on one elbow and glanced down at the well-dressed woman lying on the sloped lawn. She seemed stunned; the jolt probably knocked the wind out of her. He checked her pulse and gently slapped her cheeks.

'Ma'am?'

She opened her eyes, focused and stared up at him. After a minute she caught her breath.

'What…oh, God, I'm sorry. _God, I am so sorry!_ Did I hurt you?'

'Takes a lot more than that to hurt me, Ma'am,' he said gently. 'Are you all right?' He helped her sit up.

'I…I think so. I'm just so damned embarrassed!' She looked around for her bag; he handed it to her.

'Hey, don't be; nobody's around. This place is usually crawling with personal injury lawyers…if anyone noticed, they'd be the first.'

She started to laugh at his joke but her face slowly crumbled and she began to cry. She dropped her head into her hands.

'What's wrong? What…are you hurt?'

She shook her head. 'It's… I'm ok. There's nothing you can do. There's nothing _anybody_ can do. It's the goddamned justice system. It's a farce!'

'Don't I know it,' he said evenly.

She took a deep breath and made to get up. He helped her to her feet. She was shaking but managed to regain her dignity. 'Thank you, sir, I apologize for slamming into you; I hope I didn't hurt you; I wasn't watching where I was going.' She offered her hand and he shook it. He didn't let go; he grasped her hand in both of his.

'Please tell me what's wrong.'

In a voice that quavered, she said, 'No…you're a stranger, I don't know you, there's nothing you can do, and I have to catch the bus.'

Still holding her trembling hand in both of his, he said gently, 'My name is Eliot Spencer. I work for Leverage & Associates in Portland, Oregon. Ever hear of them?'

'No. Look, I don't need…'

'Wait. Wait a minute. This is a…this is a weird way to meet a client, I'll tell you that. But you could be. We help people in what some would call hopeless situations. Yours sounds like one. Tell you what. Let me buy you a cup of coffee. You tell me what's going on. Then I'll drive you home. Do you have a cell phone?'

She nodded. He handed her a card.

'Call my office and check it out. Here's the number. I know driving off with a stranger is not the thing to do nowadays. Go ahead, call – I'll wait.'

She keyed in the numbers with a shaking finger. 'Somebody named Nate picked up,' she said.

'That'll be my boss,' Eliot said with a courtly bow.

'Um, Nate? Hello. I'm calling from Houston, Texas. My name is Ann Spencer…' Eliot looked at her curiously. '…and I'm calling about a Mr. Eliot Spencer…?'

'_Yeah, uh, hi, yes, he works for me. Spencer? Are you, uh, a relative, by any chance?'_

'No, no… I don't think so. I'm…I have a problem… He says your firm…Leverage?...can help me?'

'_Depends on the problem.'_

'Just what is it you do?'

'_Well, Ms. Spencer, we're in the business of helping people who are, shall we say, out of options. People burdened by injustices…people who've become victims of circumstances beyond their control. We provide…_leverage.'

'Sounds too good to be true.'

'_I understand your caution. I'm texting you a photo of our staff. I can assure you, if Eliot thinks your particular problem merits our attention, you're in good hands; we try our best…and you can trust him.'_

Anne looked from the photo on the phone to Eliot…and made a split decision. 'All right…I'll talk to him. Thank you.'

'_Nice talking to you, Ms. Spencer.'_

She closed the flip phone. 'All right,' she said, 'I'll go with you. I don't understand, but I'm willing to try anything at this point.'

'Coffee?' he asked.

'To tell you the truth…a beer sounds better.'

Eliot smiled. 'Sure you feel like walking?'

'I'm fine,' she assured him.

'I may never recover,' he teased. Come on…I know just the place; I was headed in that direction anyway.'

**Chapter Three**

At a high-end bar a few blocks down, Eliot found a quiet corner. 'What's your brand?'

'I'm partial to Coors.'

'Two,' he told the waitress. 'Been drinking Blue Heron for so long I forgot what rice beer tastes like.'

'What are you doing in Houston if your office is in Portland?'

'Vacation. I used to live up around Dallas. Got some old friends there and in this area,' he said. 'I was just on my way…here, actually,' he grinned.

'Didn't expect to be ambushed, didja?' she joked.

He grinned and waved it off. The beer arrived in frosty glasses. Anne sat staring at the miniscule bubbles rising to the foamy top.

'Go ahead,' he encouraged, 'tell me about it.'

She tasted her beer. 'All right,' she sighed. 'It's a long story.'

'I've got all afternoon.' His eyes were kind; his face was open and honest. She relaxed; drank some more of her beer and began.

'Ok, here goes. Back in 1985…near here…there were a number of killings along a section of the interstate. Went on for months. The police began noticing the pattern of a serial killer. Same MO, they called it, same thing every time…homes broken into, usually on a quiet street, not in a subdivision. Killings…mostly men…sometimes with a knife, sometimes with a gun, sometimes both. All the victims were robbed before they were killed.

'My husband…Lonny Spencer…had gotten laid off again from a local construction company. He got fed up with it. Construction pays well but it's not steady. We had kids to feed.'

'How many kids do you have?' asked Eliot.

'A boy and a girl. So much time has passed, they're grown now and off on their own. Not kids anymore.'

Eliot waited patiently, sipping his beer.

'Lonny was always smart; he decided to go back to college and get a degree in radiology.'

'Taking cameras into refineries and X-raying structures,' said Eliot.

'That's right,' Anne continued, 'anyway…he got hired by a company here and they sent him to Puerto Rico on his first job. I was so proud of him. We were looking forward to a whole new life; he'd be sent all over the world; maybe I could even quit work and actually raise my own kids instead of taking them to daycare every day…'

She sipped her beer. 'We'd been having some problems in our marriage…we were working hard on it, trying to iron it all out. He came home from Puerto Rico and was immediately assigned to another job in New Mexico.

'Well, he was supposed to meet Ray, one of the guys he worked with, at his house. They were going to ride together to the airport. Ray was single; lived alone. Well, somehow they got their wires crossed and Ray went on ahead to the jobsite. Lonny was at the guy's house waiting for him. I don't know why they didn't call or something…'

Anne looked out the window, eyes glistening with tears. 'Lonny never showed up for work. Somebody from the company found him four days later in Ray's bedroom closet. He'd been stabbed to death. His wallet and about $200 was gone.

'I mean,' said Anne, mopping tears with her cocktail napkin, 'here we were, starting on a new life, repairing the old one, and _this shit happens?!'_

Eliot ordered another round and the sympathetic waitress brought a box of tissues with the order.

'Took two months for the police to track down the killer. See, whoever killed Lonny stole his wallet with our pictures, our phone number, our address… So all during those two months; I'd get the kids from day care, leave them locked in the car and I'd go through the house with a gun in my hand, checking all the closets.'

'Brave woman,' Eliot said.

'Not so much brave as switching to _Mother Tiger_ mode, you know?'

Eliot smiled.

'Anyway, by the time they captured him he'd killed two other people. He finally slipped up. His last victim survived to testify at the trial.'

'What was the name of the man who killed your husband, Mrs. Spencer?'

'A man named Al Broaxton.'

'What was the outcome of his trial?'

'He got the death penalty.'

'In Texas, that's a good thing. Tops in the nation.'

'You'd think so, wouldn't you? But here's the kicker: ten years later, the Texas Attorney General admitted that state prosecutors made a constitutional error by allowing the prison psychologist Weston Quinones to testify during the sentencing phase of the trial. Quinones also testified in five other death row inmate trials. All six of them had their cases reviewed and were granted _new trials._

'This guy Quinones…what was the basis of his testimony as a psychologist?'

'That race is a factor in crime. All six inmates were black.'

'Huh,' said Eliot. 'A shrink playing the race card.'

'_Quinones should never have been allowed inside that courtroom.'_

'His theory is highly debatable. I've seen statistics that prove it wrong. About thirty-three percent for white, black, Hispanic: the numbers are pretty evenly spread,' said Eliot. 'So what happened?'

'With the new trials? That started the appeals process all over again. After another ten years, three of the men, including Broaxton, were granted reprieves and transferred off death row to the general population…which of course, meant…'

'The possibility of parole.'

'You got it,' said Anne. She spoke with anger. 'And guess who was released on parole just this morning?'

'No wonder you were so upset. Here they are with an eye witness...'

'Hey, Mr. Spencer, you mix a defense lawyer slick enough, a client who portrays himself as a model prisoner, and a bleeding heart liberal politician all together, you can wreak all kinds of havoc on the people. As for the eye witness, at the second trial, they discounted him as incompetent; Broaxton had pistol-whipped him so badly he was left with a concave skull. Frankly, I think they bought that particular doctor…

'So you see, it's hopeless. Your company; your firm; there's nothing they can do. The State of Texas…_**has…spoken,**_' she said, imitating the Wizard of Oz. 'How can you fight that?'

She finished her beer, shaking her head at the offer of a third.

'I need to get home. I'm exhausted. I've been here all day…been fighting this thing for years…I'm just…_exhausted.'_

'I gotta be honest with you, this is a tough case,' Eliot said. 'Let me talk to my boss and get his input. Give me your number and I'll get back to you in a couple of days.'

She fished in her purse for a paper and pen. 'Here's my work and home numbers. I guess I'm at the point where I'll do anything, Mr. Spencer.' She looked him in the eye. _'Anything.'_

'You can call me Eliot.'

'Anne,' she said. They shook hands across the table.

'You say you've been fighting this case for years,' Eliot said. 'Would you happen to have documentation?'

'Only every scrap of paper relating to it.'

Eliot imagined a mountain of paper and groaned inwardly. 'Reading through it would be helpful.'

'What about a thumb drive? I've scanned it all and kept everything organized. You can have a copy.'

'That's perfect. Now…how about that ride home?' asked Eliot.

'I think I'll take you up on it.'

They chatted on the ride to Anne's home in Eliot's white truck. Anne wanted to know more about Leverage. 'Curious name. Exactly what do they do? What is it you do for them?'

'Wait and talk to Nate. I'm gonna ask him to fly in tomorrow to look at the case. He'll answer all your questions.'

'Thanks, Eliot,' she said as he pulled up in front of her house. He came around, opened the door for her and escorted her to her front door.

'Mind a word of caution? Now that this Broaxton is free, keep your doors locked. Is this where you've always lived? You got a security system?'

'Just a dog. I got rid of the gun years ago. Didn't want the kids getting it.'

'What breed's the dog?'

'Pitt bull.'

'Good,' he grinned. 'They're protective.' Eliot turned to go.

'Wait! I'll get you the thumb drive.'

He put it in his pocket and shook her hand again. 'I never asked you, but…do you have any relatives in Oklahoma?'

'No, my folks were all from Mississippi…Lonnie's were from Louisiana. Why?'

'Just curious. Maybe having the same last name is an omen.'

'Let's hope a good one. Bye, Eliot.'

He started down the steps.

'Eliot?'

'Yeah?'

'I'm done being jerked around. I hope this Nate guy is for real.'

**Chapter Four**

After a room-service dinner in his hotel, Eliot inserted the thumb drive into his laptop. He scanned the documents, reading swiftly; a picture of the case building in his mind. There were several images of the perpetrator. When first caught, Broaxton was a hulk of a man, over six feet tall, at least three hundred pounds with a large afro and full beard. His eyes were what caught Eliot's attention.

_Wouldn't like to meet him in a dark alley,_ Eliot thought to himself.

Later photos showed a man shaved, clean and neat, who had lost about fifty pounds. To his consternation, several anti-death penalty groups were championing Broaxton's cause. A webpage extolling his good humor and gentle nature had been set up; in fact, two of them, mainly from groups in Europe, some of whom had even visited him in prison. Eliot felt his gorge rise at the thought. _You people wouldn't look so happy to meet him at the other end of his knife, now, would you?_

There were newspaper articles, letters from officials, updates on the case from the prosecutors, a note from the judge who had refused to let Anne deliver an impact statement because the eye witness's case was stronger than Lonny's. Broaxton's trial was based on that case because the evidence was strongest. Anne had gotten screwed from the very beginning. Her files covered every aspect of the case, right down to the chemical composition of the drug cocktail administered in an execution.

Eliot had so far uncovered nothing that could be used as, well, leverage to get Broaxton sent back to death row. However, he wasn't the Mastermind. He had every confidence that Nate could turn over some rock beneath which would crawl all the sliminess they needed for this case. If not, perhaps he could manufacture some.

Eliot met Nate at the airport the next day and briefed him on the way back to the hotel. Nate got a room of his own and studied the contents of the thumb drive on his laptop late into the night, aided by the Internet, a few calls to Hardison, room service and plenty of Irish whiskey. Eliot paced in his room, unable to sleep, hoping Nate would find a loophole or some bit of ambiguity in the case.

However, the next morning, Nate almost immediately dashed his hopes.

'Eliot, this case has gone through the system. You know the judicial system is its own entity. Once it makes a decision, that's that. Look, first of all,' Nate enumerated on his fingers, 'you have a case that predates DNA testing; the first case to bring a conviction using DNA was Tommie Andrews in 1987. You have a discredited eye witness. The prosecutors sabotaged their own case with the psychologist. You have two trials. You think they're going to go for a third?'

'Nate, the cops are sure it was him.'

'Cops, Eliot, they do fine work, but when you boil it down it's the lawyers and politicians who run things and they in turn put pressure on the judges. A cop's work is many times, completely wasted.'

'Yeah, well, the system's fucking corrupt!'

'Which is why Leverage tries to help as many as we can. But Eliot, we can't help everyone, and this is outside of our scope. You're going to have to tell this Mrs. Spencer that our hands are tied. I'm sorry.'

Eliot stood looking at the skyline through the high-rise hotel's window, fuming. 'Nate, I told her you'd talk to her.'

'Well, Eliot, you shouldn't have done that. It was a waste of time and money for me to come here and I don't want to play with the woman's hopes. Next time don't get so caught up in a case…'

'I'll tell you what I'll do, Nate…I'll just give them a referral and let _you_ handle it. I didn't, ok, I accepted it but I didn't solicit this case, you know.'

'I know, Eliot,' said Nate, gently. 'When, uh, when you coming back to Portland?'

'I'm still on vacation, Nate. I've got another few weeks, all right? What, you want me to start punching a clock next?'

'Hey, just don't punch the messenger,' said Nate.

'Forget it, Nate.'

Discomfited, Nate said, 'I reviewed the case. I did all I could, Eliot.'

He left the Hitter still standing at the window.

Damn it. _Damn it! Fuck!_ thought Eliot. What was he gonna tell Anne?

**Chapter Five**

Anne was at work but not at her desk. Eliot left a message and had a quick lunch while he waited for her call. He didn't want to deliver bad news on an empty stomach. As much as Anne's story had touched him he knew he was at a dead end. Nate was right. The system worked in mysterious ways but wonders were never performed; people got screwed more often than they got justice. He shouldn't have given Anne the slightest bit of encouragement. He shouldn't have suggested the team take the case.

His phone rang. 'Badging station, this is Anne.'

'It's Eliot. Eliot Spencer.'

She sighed into the phone. 'The answer's no…I can hear it in your voice.'

'I'm sorry.'

'Not your fault, I know you tried. So much for this Leverage firm of yours, huh?'

'Anne…'

'Meet me at my house at seven. You remember where?' she said abruptly.

_What was this?_ he thought. 'Yeah,' he said cautiously, 'what's up?'

'Just meet me at seven. I have to go back to work.'

She hung up.

As Nate would no doubt say, it sounded like Plan M was being formulated. Luckily, Hardison was safe in Portland.

**Chapter Six**

'Sorry I was so short with you on the phone.' Anne opened the door and ushered Eliot into the hallway. 'Wait, hold on a moment.'

She stopped Eliot just inside the door.

'Nancy!' she called.

'Who's Nancy?'

'Remember I said I had a dog? Let her meet you.'

An enormous white short-haired dog trotted up the hallway. She had wide jaws, floppy ears and one tan spot just above one eye. Using only hand signals, Anne told her to sit.

'Put your hand out,' said Anne.

Eliot complied.

'If she likes you she'll put her paw on your hand. If not, it might be best if you leave.'

'Why didn't you tell her about me before I got here?' Eliot joked.

Anne laughed. 'Doesn't work that way, unfortunately. She has to meet and greet.'

The dog sniffed Eliot's hand. He loved dogs and knew she smelled no fear on him. Nancy sniffed him up and down. After a few seconds the dog sat and placed her large paw gently on Eliot's hand. 'I passed muster. Impressive. You teach her that yourself?'

'Yeah, one of my hobbies. It's just me here now, and I feel much more safe and secure when she's around. Come on in. Just don't make any sudden moves, especially toward me, or she'll change her mind. Want a beer?'

Eliot nodded and took an easy chair in the tastefully decorated living room. Anne brought him a cold bottle and sat across from him. Nancy, intrigued by the newcomer who smelled so good, placed herself conveniently within ear-scratching distance. Eliot obliged her, rubbing his hand over her large head.

'Guess I'll find out what this is about, eventually,' he prompted.

'All right, I'll get right to the point. When the justice system failed me I found, quite by accident, someone who might help,' she said, smiling. 'That person was you.'

'But I failed you.'

'No, you didn't…the courts did…Leverage did. I trust _you_ won't, Eliot.'

'Anne, what…' Eliot stopped rubbing the dog's head.

'Remember I said I was at the point where I'd do anything? I meant it. When I shook your hand in the bar, I saw your Special Forces tattoo.'

'Yeah, so?'

'I did some checking of my own. Since I work security I was able to track down some information on you.'

'Anne…'

'I want to hire you, Eliot. Off the books, off the record, just between you and me.'

'Hire me to do what?'

'Stop playing stupid. You know what. I want you to kill him. I want you to kill Broaxton.'

'Yeah? _Then what?_ Take his place on death row? No, thanks.'

'You know covert operations, Eliot. You were Black Ops. You could do it. What, are we going to wait until he strikes again? He will, you know. The prosecutor said the probability of his committing a violent act again is 100%. Not only does he know I'm the one who's been trying to get him back on death row, he has everything but my goddamn social security number!'

Eliot remained silent. Nancy looked from one human to the other, trying to decide if she should be concerned. She didn't like the tone of her mistress's voice, but the newcomer was calm and quiet.

Anne was goaded. 'Ok, Eliot, does money talk louder? I'm offering a quarter of a mil!'

'Where'd you get that kind of money, Anne?'

'Lonnie's double indemnity. It was supposed to pay for the kids' college but neither of them used it. I still have it all.'

'It's not about money, Anne. So you found out about me, _huh?_ Exactly what did you find out? You have _no clue_ who I really am…who I used to be. And I'll be honest with you, I don't want to be that guy any more. Now, what I suggest you do is move out, use that money to go someplace he can't find you and put this house on the market. If he's anything like what's in those files, he'll get caught again, eventually.'

'Oh, so I turn my life upside down because of _him?_ Somebody _else_ has to die before something is done?'

'Look, I know what you're up against…'

She shook her head. 'You know, when I ran into you and this whole thing started up I thought it was like a…a gift from God or something…not that I believe in God any more…but I thought it was an omen, like having the same name…something! But you're no better than all the other people I've tried to get help from. Nancy, come!'

The dog obediently got to her feet and left Eliot's side to stand with her mistress although she sensed no threat from the newcomer; in fact, she liked him.

'Sit. Stay, girl.' Anne stood up. 'Eliot, it's safe for you to go now and I suggest you do so. Thank you for the effort you made and the work you put into it. Have Nate send me a bill. Now please leave.'

Eliot handed her the thumb drive and started for the door. He turned to her and said, 'Anne…if you're thinking of hiring another hitman…_please don't._ You're getting in way over your head.'

'Your advice doesn't carry a lot of weight with me anymore, Mr. Spencer.'

Eliot turned on his heel and stalked out the door.

**Chapter Seven**

Eliot checked out of the hotel and headed north out of town, back to Dallas. Maybe he'd cruise through Oklahoma on his way back to Oregon. The long drive would help clear his head. He turned off the air conditioner and lowered the windows of the cab. The cool night wind whipped his long hair. He got a sense of freedom from it, like there was no longer any need to worry about people in the world who needed help and couldn't get it.

Funny how a chance encounter could bring people together and Karma could skew the daylights out of it all.

Dozens of taillights were blinking red in myriad patterns in the long line of cars, trucks and semis ahead of him; the flow of traffic was grinding to a halt. This part of the freeway, he knew, was frequently subject to logjams. Either someone had had a fender bender, rubberneckers were gawking at a wreck or a trucker had spilled his load. Often traffic backed up for miles; the reason never known until you had crawled all the way to the scene by which time you were lucky if your engine wasn't smoking.

There were no crossover cuts, just miles of K-rails. The feeders would fill up shortly as motorists left the freeway. A few of them were already braving the narrow shoulder to speed ahead to the next exit before that happened. Eliot would have to be content with driving five miles an hour for no telling how long. To while away the time, he turned on the radio. Houston had good country stations; he scanned the buttons, looking for one, but at ten o'clock, all he could find were news segments.

What he wouldn't give for a beer.

A fragment from a newscaster's voice caught his attention. He dialed back to it.

'…_at a home in northwest Houston. Two people were also reported shot and stabbed to death an hour ago along the Northwest Freeway near Blalock. Houston police are at the scene._

Anne lived in that same area.

Eliot joined the few who were teetering on the narrow shoulder to bypass dozens of cars blaring their horns in protest, and took the next feeder. He looped back beneath the overpass and headed back the way he had come.

**Chapter Eight**

It took him an hour to get to Anne's neighborhood. There were no street lights and Anne's house was dark. The moon was hidden behind a stack of clouds. Eliot passed by the house at normal speed and parked the truck on the street a block further up.

He walked back to the house and tried the front door. It was locked. He stepped down off the porch and checked each window along the side. The house was too quiet. Anne's dog should have been raising hell if anything was wrong. As he rounded the back of the house his worst fears were confirmed: the back door had been kicked in, the screen shredded. He debated calling the police and rejected the idea. Intentionally or not, he had let Anne down. Besides, if he was right, he was up against just one man.

Eliot crept stealthily through the kitchen and dining area toward the living room and down the center hall, checking behind furniture and doors. Where was the dog? Nancy could have gotten out of the shattered back door but that was doubtful; she was too well trained. Where in hell was Anne?

The house was on one level; for that he was grateful. Another hall ran perpendicular to the center hall and led to two other rooms. He checked the bedroom and bath to the right; they were clear.

The clouds broke; dim moonlight made its way through the front window and crept into the hall, illuminating what looked like a dog's paw. Eliot knelt and peered into the darkness. His hand came in contact with a still-warm body; Nancy was dead, lying at the end of the hallway. A knife protruded from her neck. No doubt she had died protecting her owner.

Eliot saw, a split second too late, the large hulk of a man approach from the second bedroom door, blocking the moonbeam and casting the hall into darkness. He slammed into Eliot, who immediately grappled with him. Eliot, though expert in close quarter combat, was at a disadvantage; the man was much larger, the hall was narrow and the hardwood floor was slick with the dog's blood. The man bent over Eliot and grabbed him by the throat. Eliot grasped one finger and bent it back, cracking it; the man howled and loosened his grip. Eliot simultaneously swung his legs up and scissored them down against the outside of the man's knees, which sent him sprawling onto his back.

Catching one massive leg, he isolated the knee joint to keep him down. He aimed with one booted foot to the solar plexus; despite the broken finger, the man caught his foot and twisted it. Eliot was thrown backward. His head landed on the dead dog's flank. Eliot saw his chance and wrenched the knife from the dog's neck. He flipped it and threw accurately, striking the man in the neck. The man fell heavily, gurgling, trying to pull the knife from his trachea.

Eliot got to his feet and located the hall light switch. The man he was looking down upon was indeed Broaxton; Eliot had not been able to erase that image from his mind. He pulled the knife from the man's throat; slicing the hands that were clutching it. Broaxton, bleeding heavily, held up his hands in a gesture of supplication. Eliot wasn't having it. He stabbed Broaxton repeatedly until he at last stopped twitching. He stood up, sweating, splattered with the blood of a criminal and smeared with the blood of a hero dog.

_There. That's justice for all those you killed, bastard…and justice for Anne, at long last._ Eliot spat on him.

_Anne._ He had to find her.

He searched the entire house thoroughly, calling her name. He thought maybe she might have hidden in the yard if she got out; there were shrubs enough to conceal anyone but a search of the yard yielded nothing. A small garage not attached to the house was his last option. He knew Anne had no car; the small building was likely used as storage. The door opened at his touch. There was a light switch to his left; he flicked it on. His eyes scanned the neatly kept contents. The only vehicle was a riding lawnmower; behind that, a metal tool cabinet. Slight vibrations in its doors told him where she was hiding.

'Anne? Anne…it's Eliot Spencer.'

The door opened a crack. 'He's in the house!' she whispered in alarm.

'Yeah he is, and he won't be bothering you anymore.'

'Are you sure?'

'I didn't let you down this time, Anne.'

She opened the door all the way. She was kneeling in the lower half of the cabinet and had been there for so long she couldn't get to her feet.

He saw her dilemma. He hooked both arms under hers and lifted her up and out of the cabinet. She couldn't straighten her knees all the way; she could barely stand.

'How long have you been in there?'

'I don't know, a few hours. I heard Nancy go after someone when they came in the front door; I ran out here. It was the only place I could think of. I left my phone in the kitchen like an idiot. I didn't think, I just ran. I heard her barking and growling until she…stopped.'

'It's ok now. I'll call the police; they're in the neighborhood. He hit another house before he got to yours.'

She looked at him.

'They didn't make it. Looks like the prosecutor was right about Broaxton's percentage.'

'He was coming after me…and he stopped off down the street…what, _for practice?!'_

'Don't think about it. Look, you're shaking like a leaf. Let's go sit on the porch.'

'My…my Nancy's gone, isn't she?'

Eliot nodded. 'I'm sorry. One hellova dog. I don't even like pitt bulls…but that one, man, she gave her life for you.'

Eliot helped Anne into the porch chair and dialed his phone.

It wasn't long before the first patrol car showed up. Then another, followed by an ambulance.

As he gave a statement to the police, Eliot watched the murderer's body being loaded into the ambulance. Admitting he had killed Broaxton made him nervous. He was too well known in some circles, practically worldwide, for some previously unscrupulous activities. He could only hope these guys wouldn't dig too deeply. Anne was speaking to another officer. He had a feeling she would cover for him as much as she could.

It was a clear case of self-defense, the officers determined. They asked Eliot not to leave town until their investigation was finished; he solemnly promised. That's where Hardison's ingenious work would come in, expunging everything from city, county and state records. He had only to call his friend and it would be done. The man could be exasperating at times but he always had your back.

After the squad cars and meat wagon had gone, Eliot helped Anne bury Nancy in her back yard. He suggested she get a few things together and live at a hotel for a while until she decided what to do next.

**Chapter Nine**

Eliot threw Anne's bags into the back of his truck with his own and drove her to the same hotel he had vacated earlier. The desk clerk stared at him curiously but made no comment. Eliot paid for a week's stay for her and helped her to her room.

As they ascended in the elevator, Anne looked at him.

'Eliot do you know why the desk clerk was staring at you?'

'No, why?'

'You're a filthy, bloody mess, that's why. Here's the room key. I'm going back down to get your bag. You take a shower and I'll bring you some clean clothes. You don't want to start out for home looking like that.'

Eliot grinned sheepishly. 'Thanks, Anne.'

When Eliot got out of the shower he found his clothes laid out on the still-made bed. Anne wasn't there. He packed his dirty, sticky things into a plastic bag and stuffed them into his luggage. Riding the elevator down, he found himself wishing she had told him goodbye. They had shared so much in such a brief time.

He checked with the desk clerk, who informed him Ms. Spencer was in the bar, waiting for him. They closed in an hour, he warned.

Eliot found her sipping a scotch on the rocks; a double by the color of it.

'No beer tonight?' he teased as he slid onto the seat beside her.

'Needed something stronger. I think I'm entitled to it, don't you think? Join me?'

He declined. 'I've got a long drive ahead of me.' He ordered a beer. 'One beer won't hurt, though.'

'Listen, Eliot…you earned every penny of that reward I offered you.'

'I can't take it, Anne.'

'Why not?'

'I didn't…I…I don't like jobs that…never mind, I just can't take it.'

'I understand. At least, I _think_ I understand. This whole thing, and the way it played out…that I'll _never_ understand.'

'I'm just glad you don't have to be afraid anymore. _That's_ my payment.' Eliot finished his beer and mopped his mouth on his sleeve.

Anne offered her hand, client-to-professional. Eliot took her hand in his and shook it, and was surprised when she suddenly enveloped him in an embrace. She kissed his cheek, whispering in his ear, 'I wish I could invite you back up, but I sense you'd refuse that, too. Maybe it's just as well.'

She looked into his eyes. In those startlingly blue depths she saw self-incrimination, regret, buried anger, kindness, passion and yes, temptation.

'I have to go,' he said, simply.

'I'll never forget you or what you did for me,' she said, gratefully.

He was in her face before she knew what was happening; startling her. _'No, Anne,'_ he said in a low growl. 'You _forget_ me. You forget _Broaxton._You burn those files. Rebuild your life. Play with your grandkids if you've got 'em. Forget all of this. Believe me, you don't want it living in your head.'

He turned from her and walked out of the hotel...and out of her life.

**Chapter Ten**

It felt good to be on the road again. The traffic had cleared and he had a straight shot to Norman. He'd visit some cousins, get his mind right, have a few beers; well, more than a few, and play some pool. Then it was off to Portland, stopping along the way at any damn place that took his fancy.

In Centennial, just south of Denver, he pulled into a modest little tourist trap of a motel made up of about ten cabins that looked like wigwams, wasted from too little sleep; the hum of the road was making him nod off. After registering, he parked in front of his own little cabin, grabbed his bag, turned on the A/C and simply collapsed on the bed, fully clothed.

He awoke late the next morning. A hot shower felt good; the coffee shop next door was going to make him feel even better. He pulled some clean clothes out of his bag. As he unrolled a fresh pair of jeans, a hefty brown envelope fell on the bed.

He knew what it was before he opened it and counted the money. She'd taken his advice up to a point, keeping half of what she'd offered him. One hundred twenty-five big ones…enough for her to rebuild her life…but it wasn't payment enough for what he'd done. Five times that wouldn't have cut it. Hell, ten times that.

He couldn't keep it. It stood for everything he'd left behind. Of all those on the team, he alone carried the heaviest burden. He was their guardian, but in all the years he'd worked for them he'd never killed for them. He'd disarmed…he'd disabled…but he'd refused to kill. He thought he'd never again revert to what he was before.

A memory stirred. _'Don't ask me that, Parker…because if you ask me, I'm gonna tell ya. So please…don't ask me._ By the look on her face, maybe she thought I had unpaid parking tickets or something. Parker was a thief, a criminal. Yet, somehow, so innocent.

He hefted the envelope in his palm. Hardison could transfer the money back to Anne. But Eliot knew she'd send it back, and why. It was payment for her clear conscience.

It dawned on him exactly what he could do with the money. With his decision came peace of mind and a ravenous appetite. He hoped the cafe stocked plenty of bacon and eggs and had fresh coffee brewed. Eliot Spencer was on his way.

Back in Portland at last, Eliot pulled into the parking garage behind the bar and loft that housed Leverage, Inc. He was glad to be home. Shouldering his bag, he took the steps and opened the door. Thankfully, no one was in the briefing room. He threw his bag onto the black couch and plucked a beer from the fridge. He planned to kick back and surf through every sports channel Nate had.

The door opened; Parker waltzed in. 'Hey, you're back!' she said enthusiastically. 'How was the trip?'

'Come over here, Parker, I brought you something.'

'You _did?'_ Giddy as a child, she plopped down beside him. He handed her the envelope and turned his attention back to the screen, chugging his beer.

Parker opened the envelope. After the first sharp intake of breath, she removed the C-notes, caressed them lovingly and sniffed them appreciatively. 'For _me?'_

'For you, Parker, all of it.'

'Where'd this come from?'

'I found it.' Which was only the truth, any way you wanted to call it.

'You didn't _steal_ it?' Parker sounded a trifle disappointed, as if that would have somehow consecrated the money.

'No, Parker, I didn't steal it, I found it. Now it's yours. I'm watchin' the game, _ok?_ Go away.'

The End


End file.
